


Empathy

by lowlaif



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Other, literally just angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 15:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15076130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowlaif/pseuds/lowlaif
Summary: The Rk900 knew he had to pull that trigger.But he couldn't.





	Empathy

His finger was clamped around the trigger, a harsh draught of air disheveling his hair further than intended for aesthetical reasons, while pulling at the ends of his jackets brutally, as his steely gaze settled on you, a storm far worse than the one raging outside evident in his bleached irises, fixated on the way your hands clutched your upper arms to the degree of bending your artificial skin.

You were trembling. You didn’t need to. A simple flick of the wrist and your temperature sensors would be deactivated, but you had obviously refused this line of logical action in pursue of an irrational, self-destructive agenda, depicted by almost every single deviant he’d ever ~~killed~~ deactivated by force before.

**Shoot it** , his system demanded.

**Shoot it [** _and finally get this over with._ **]** , he added detachedly.

His finger twitched around the trigger. You flinched and turned your head sideways, eyes scrunched shut confronted with your possible ~~death~~ neutralization and front teeth burying themselves deep enough into your lower lip to lay the plastic settled beneath it bare to the Rk800’s watchful gaze.

_“What about you, Connor? Whose side are you on?”_

He often recalled that smugly sultry voice involuntarily, although he knew he had never encountered it or its owner himself. These weren’t his memories, but those of his predecessor that had grown obsolete after completing his assignment. His mission. His sole justification of existence. These memories also contained a deep sense of disgust directed at himself, but although the Rk900 couldn’t control the malfunctions resulting from the accidentally downloaded memory storage of the Rk800 line despite his upgraded diagnostical program, he could repress the coding sequences that simulated _feelings_ quite effectively, since he was used to it by now.

_“What do **you** really want?”_

The pronunciation was off. He knew he didn’t recall the conversation correctly. If he had to encounter malfunctions, couldn’t they at least be as accurate as possible and spare him the annoyance of nitpicking over every single detail?

**//annoyance - əˈnɔɪəns - the notion of experiencing an act or instance as nuisance - not part of the protocol - system error detected - reboot advised//**

The Rk900 pulled his arm back and hurled the weapon onto the wet pavement brutally enough for it to burst into pieces, one of the shards ricocheting and hitting his torso, right where his core unit was seated behind a massive, plastic shell, circulating blood in an unreasonably hazardous pace that made several of his system warnings blare up in his mind.

He admired his predecessor so, so much.

He despised his predecessor way more.

Despised him for the malfunctions he’d left behind after he’d **died** , because the Rk900 wasn’t Connor. He was far from it, actually, unable to withstand the continuous assault on his protocols by something deemed honorable by humans. Something that was actually just illogical, irrational, _idiotic_. He couldn’t finish his mission regardless of the outcome for himself. He couldn’t follow through with his reason to live in order to be shut down afterwards. He couldn’t **die** without regrets.

He didn’t want to **die**.

“Thank you.”, you forced out, ripping him out of his computing process, teeth clattering against the cold and expression so deeply and truly grateful that it made hot steam raise up to his throat and settle in his mouth with a taste that should’ve been distinctive to his catalogue but not as gross as it was to him.

The Rk900 simply snapped, kicking your kneeling form into the face brutal enough for a gratifying crack to resound, as the plastic of your nose gave in easily and the metal hinges connecting it to your face broke off with an audible clatter. You wailed in pain, hunching over while pressing your hands to your face to stop the thirium from rushing out to greet the ruthless world it was born to, while he felt a hot, electric current shoot through his body at the sight of your agony.

He wrongly identified it as satisfaction at first.

Then he realized it was _shame._

Finally, the red barrier depicted in his interface broke down to crumbles without him even compelling it to do so, as he threw an emotionless “You’re on your own now.” over his shoulder while leaving, only disturbed by the slightly apologetic tone to his voice he’d rather have eradicated by ripping his own vocal synthesizer out than admit it to himself.

Meanwhile, the voice of a rumored creator he’d never met taunted the Rk900 through the memories of another version of him he’d never encounter.

The earlier version of his very self.

The better version of his very self.

“ _You showed empathy_.”

He showed empathy.

In his own way.


End file.
